


A Heart that Does Not Beat is Still a Heart in Itself

by La_Rapsodia_Incantata



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Author knows nothing about what happens in a battlefield, But don't worry mentions aren't graphic, Established Relationship, F/M, George is a vampire, George was born in the 1800s, HOORAY, Hope you enjoy this!, I INTENDED for it to be a one-shot, I don't even know if you can call this a one-shot, I mean, I was never really talented at short stories, M/M, McLennon-Freeform, So please excuse me, So yeah, The other three were born in the 1920's (if I remember correctly), anyway, but uhhh, character deaths are mentioned, first time writing for this fandom, not that detailed though, so!, some descriptions of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Rapsodia_Incantata/pseuds/La_Rapsodia_Incantata
Summary: In which George tells you a secret long kept.
Relationships: George Harrison/You, John Lennon/Paul McCartney (mentioned)
Kudos: 10





	A Heart that Does Not Beat is Still a Heart in Itself

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I would like to thank Daisy for beta-ing this! You're wonderful, Luv. 
> 
> Second of all, I would like to say that I can't believe I wrote this many words just because of a single picture. Like, I just saw a picture of Geo with this m a g n i f i c e n t hairstyle on Tumblr one day, and I was like, "Gotta make a fic about that." Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this little thing of mine, and have a nice day/night wherever you are ;)

If someone had told you that the day would come when you’d prefer to be in a lone, gaudy house atop a distant hill than anywhere else, you would’ve burst out laughing. You wouldn’t have stopped for days, thinking the unlikeliness of the whole concept too overpowering to get over.

You’re not exactly laughing now, but it’s not for a bad reason. Turns out, you quite enjoy living in the early Victorian mansion, whose rooms have become places of sincere comfort in times of severe distress. 

You also enjoy taking charge of the fairly vast gardens outside—when you aren’t doing your job as a freelance writer/editor, you’d go tend to the variety of garden plants there; it could sometimes be a much more cheery place than the interior of the eccentrically designed monster of a manor. There’s the peculiar draft that comes and leaves from time to time, but you’ve figured that the best place to stay when they’d haunt is in the library with its old, dusty books, and gigantic fireplace that wards the cold away. You also adore the ballroom particularly, as you’d find yourself dancing alone in the mornings and accompanied at night by the man you never thought existed in this harsh reality. 

Now, it’s been a little over a year since you’ve moved in, and you’re waiting for the last bit of the sun to disappear from the horizon. You’ve just finished your standard mug of coffee and the last bit of the work you’d taken up last month at least an hour ago. You’re now in the main hall under the grand chandelier, whose candles have been replaced by electronic bulbs, waiting for George to pop in through one of the many doors that adjoin at a number of rooms and halls to this one.

The most difficult part of moving in was the adjustment—to everything, really. It was easy to discuss your transfer to your landlady, who was a gentle soul who didn’t want to snoop around your private life. It was also easy to gather all your things and leave first thing—you didn’t bring much when you first moved to Liverpool. However, you were moving in with a man who was naturally nocturnal, and a loner by a thousand and a few hundred years’ effect on his social development. You were moving into an estate old enough to be called a national, historic venue that lacked proper electricity. It had taken you three months to search for an electrician who’d help you with that issue (without asking questions, of course), and the cost of adding appliances and the likes was greater than how much of the total you’d earn in eight full years. You were lucky only because of your lover’s great, hidden wealth, but it was still a considerably chaotic experience to deal with.

At first, you were almost certain you’d go insane before you’d adjusted to your life there. The loneliness was completely overwhelming at first. Despite being mostly introverted, you found it difficult to be left with only your thoughts during the day, especially because of the monumental change in lifestyle. Anxiety led to terrible cases of insomnia, and although you were able to spend some of your nights with George, your body couldn’t handle the lack of sleep. It bled into your daily living, but you were fortunate that you’d gotten everything back to normal before it started affecting your work; which was already unstable as it was.

Thanks to George of course.

He’s been an absolute godsend. You were wholly capable of caring for yourself—that much was clear. Although, you were still moderately fresh from college and in an entirely new environment. Sick days were the worst, but that was before meeting George. Even before you’d moved in with him, he’d cook your meals (after mastering the use of the stove) and take care of you, leaving his place first thing after waking and rushing to your flat to care for you until the next morning came. Life became more manageable with him watching over you, and you couldn’t ask for a more courteous and virtuous man to be with you. 

You’d often think about the night you met him. May it be in the morning, or when you’d be having a game of chess or any other board game at night under a lamp, it’s still much of a thought to ponder on.

***

You didn’t know what you were expecting when you first stepped foot into the local pub. A couple of ales, maybe, or a few harmless chats with some regulars there. You might’ve expected a couple of slurs aimlessly thrown around by pissed drunkards earlier on, but you never expected to hear beautiful guitar music played by a striking man in a fashionable leather coat reminiscent of the late 1800s. With thick, wavy black hair that ended just right at the tops of his shoulders, he looked like the son of a Duke or a Count of some sort, and his bangs parted in the middle just to reveal a bit of forehead. His voice was not too deep, but not too high either. It was perfect, and he seemed to be singing a ballad you never heard of before.

“Who is he?” you ask one of the men sitting beside you. He doesn’t shift atop his barstool, but he acknowledges your question by clearing his throat for his answer.

“Jus’ some bloke who plays fer gigs ‘ere. ‘E’s been ‘ere fer a long time now, even before I’d started spendin’ me nights at this ruddy place,” the man to your left replies. You suppose that’s just about everything you’d be hearing from him for the rest of the evening, and unfortunately, the man to your right has already passed out from too much to drink.

You listen to the guitar player instead, finding his voice strangely soothing. It’s not familiar, you know, as you’ve never heard or seen him before, but it’s that kind of soothing feeling you get when you hear something calming, like the softness of the chirp of a newborn bird.

You don’t realize that you’ve been sitting around and listening for at least two hours without finishing the first pint of ale (and most probably the last at this point, you think) you’ve ordered for the night until the man says, “For this last bit, I’ll be singin’ a little tune written by someone I knew... It’s called ‘In My Life.’”

The song is primarily a love song at first hearing. Although, when you pay attention to the lyrics more, it’s a song that speaks of nostalgia; of memories of things, people, and places that have come and gone. It speaks of friends who’ve hung around and passed away, lovers who’ve stayed and left, and everyone and everything in between. It’s a mysteriously enchanting song, sad and sterling, and you can somehow feel the raw emotion in his voice and in his words. 

Feeling compelled to learn more about him, you look at him, entranced, but he never catches your gaze. His eyes stay intently closed as he plucks at the strings of his acoustic guitar.

“In my life, I’ll love you more,” he sings finally, and his plucking slows down until it comes to a full stop. He gets no response from his audience, but he doesn’t seem to mind, you conclude by seeing the way he doesn’t bat even an eye. He stands from the stool and brings his guitar with him as he makes his way to the back and disappears.

You blink once and decide you’ve had enough for the night. Despite having drunk only one pint of ale, you feel slightly off-kilter, and you leave your payment (including a little tip) on the bar for the barman to claim.

The guitar player is right outside, his worn instrument leaning against his leg as he smokes a joint, smoke rising from the butt of the cigarette. At first, you feel hesitant to grab his attention or to call for him—a person disturbed is never the best to talk to, but you’ve never been good at resisting your impulses. It’s been a small weakness of yours since you were young, and while you tap him on the shoulder, you hope dearly that this won’t end up in a catastrophe. Your only remaining family are a continent away and as a recluse, the amount of people out there to help you is close to none... if there is, anyway.

The man turns around almost fast enough to give you whiplash. You hurry to apologize, but a surge of warmth rushes through you, as you see not a single sign of annoyance on the man’s face. You see the guitar lose balance, but he’s quick enough to catch it before it could hit the ground.

“My, young lady, what’s the matter?” the man asks, the smoke escaping as he speaks. 

You marvel at his manner of speech; he’s got a Scouse accent, that’s for sure, but it’s slightly different. It’s just like the accent of those stereotypical fancy butlers sensationalized by Hollywood. Fucking Hollywood. His voice is smooth as well, and it sounds just as good when used for speaking as it is for singing.

“I thought your performance was amazing. I’ve never heard of that song before, but it’s so... familiar, in a way,” you say, thinking to get on his good side before anything else.

He smiles. “Thank ye. ‘T’s ‘bout the first time someone said tha’, actually. Them blokes don’t really care ‘bout music. Jus’ as long as they ge’ their drink, they can go shag whatever someone asks them to,” he returns. “May I ask yer name, Madam?”

“It’s (Y/N).”

“(Y/N), eh? I might’ve ‘eard of a Duchess or a Lady who shared tha’ name. Might’ve visited ‘er, even! Although... ye don’t sound like ye came from these parts. Yer from Brooklyn, if I’m gettin’ it righ’. Hmm?”

“I just have the accent because of movies! My parents were fans of the old films... made me watch them all day when I was a child. They were never really clear about my birthplace. How about you, er...”

“‘S George. Harrison. But never mind the surname. ‘M not certain ‘bout where I’m from, either. Been too long since then... Jus’ though’ t’would be best to let it go.”

“Huh.” You fidget with the leather strap of the pouch you’re carrying. “I know we told each other our names already, but,” you say, biting your lip as your fingers dance atop your shoulder. You can feel his heavy gaze on you and extend your hand. “Is it too late for a formal introduction?”  
  


“What is this?” he asks you. You utter a long and low ‘uh,’ but when you see his brows arched in genuine confusion, you come to the correct conclusion that he does not know what you’re asking for.

“You, ah... You shake my hand, basically. It’s a way of establishing an agreement between two individuals, or something like that. You don’t do that here?”

George cringes, embarrassed at his lack of knowledge. “‘M quite sorry,” he tells you. “‘S been some time since I’ve ventured from me house. I may not be familiar with some mannerisms.”

Your hand retreats shakily, and you try to avoid his eyes subtly, only to find your nerves overtaking you. Rendered utterly helpless by nervousness, you can’t help but stare into his dark-brown eyes, the color of pure chocolate and the bark of trees. 

“But, milady, I know alternative greetings. Why, I’ll bow now,” he tells you, doing as he says, and you can’t help but smile shyly as he reaches for your hand. “And I’ll take yer hand and place a kiss there if yer all righ’ with it.”

If it were anybody else, you’d be feeling wary, but here you sense no malicious intent from George. You’re the type to look up to soldiers rather than princesses, but you let yourself feel rightly courted by him. You know a man of chivalry almost hardly exists in this world but despite that knowledge; you let your well-built defenses down just enough to express your curiosity and interest in him.

“What say ye, Madam?” George asks, looking into your eyes softly.

“I’m okay with it, I think,” you respond, feeling a warmth suffuse your cheeks as you watch the corners of his lips rise in a smile.

“Gear.”

You feel the gentle, reverent press of his lips against the back of your hand. They feel like rose petals brushing against your skin—impressively smooth, considering the cold weather tonight. You vaguely recall the fact that George had been smoking before you two started talking, but you dismiss the thought as he lets up and places his other hand atop yours.

“You’re quite the old-fashioned kind, aren’t you?” you comment, one eyebrow raised in amusement as he returns his gaze to your eyes.

“Maybe I am,” he claims. “I go with the times, I love to think. There are some things in the past tha’ we ough’ to keep, but then there are those that are best left behind.”

You nod your head. “I totally agree! Imagine how it would’ve been if it were still the 1800s or something like that.”

“Truly.” He looks away for a moment, maybe checking out the glow from a distant lamppost. Something in his expression reveals to you a forlornness that lies beneath the cheerful exterior he puts up.

“You okay?”

George’s eyes are now round and bright with hope. “Yer like me, then? Ye understand?”

You blink at him once. “What’re you talking about?”

The glimmer in George’s eyes fades away along with the hope in his little smile. He huffs and shakes his head, looking just about ready to flee, but you don’t want to see him that way. You find that you feel a certain fondness for him, so you grab his forearm. Your grip on him isn’t forceful, but it’s tight enough to have him look at you again, even if his regard lands on your feet rather than your face.

“Tell me, George. I—I know we just met and all, but I don’t want you to think I won’t listen to whatever it is you have to say.”

You see George tremble, and you almost jump when he raises his head quickly and without warning, baring his teeth as if ready to snarl. Observing him, you discover his canines, far too elongated and sharp to fit in with the rest of his teeth. Fangs, one can call them. 

“So? What if you’re some Count Dra—sorry, wait.” Fucking Hollywood. You take a deep, steadying breath. “You go by the term ‘vampire,’ right?”

“That’s the nicest name my kind’ve been called, yes,” George admits, cringing; trying to shy away. You gentle your hold on him and slide your hand down the sleeve of his coat, prompting him to follow its movement.

“And you’re all right. You’re a good man, after all... I don’t see why I need to fear you or hate you for being who you are.”

George smiles kindly at you, but you can feel him shiver under your touch. “There is more to me than what meets the eye.” He picks up his guitar and pries your hand away from his coat sleeve with much care and places it at your side with a parting squeeze. “One day, I’ll tell ye everythin’, but that time is still long away.”

He disappears without a word more, leaving you staring ahead with his voice echoing in the confines of your mind.

***

“Ye were stuck there in yer head again, luv.”

“Oh? Oh! Right.” 

You dig your fingers into George’s mop of hair, which is a bit easier to access because he’d placed his head upon the place where your neck and shoulder meet. His arms are wrapped around your waist, and you hear him hum his approval when you scratch lightly at his scalp.

“What were ye thinkin’ bout, (Y/N)? Ye seemed pretty lost back there.”

“Our meeting, that’s all. It still gets me... I never thought I’d meet someone like you, is all.”

It becomes obvious that he’s waiting for something more when the silence grows long and overbearing.

“Tha’s not all, I know,” he singsongs. “C’mon. Ye can tell me what it is.”

“You never told me your secret.”

George then stiffens. You turn around and gaze at him imploringly. For a brief minute, you feel like you’ve overstepped a boundary and said something wrong, but when you spot a sliver of determination in his eyes, the thought is erased from your mind.

“Come, then. I’ll show ye something.”

George takes your hand and guides you once again through the familiar halls. The rooms that used to haunt you with the lingering feeling of uncertainty and loneliness now fill the spaces of your mind with memories of nights spent in music and art, laughter and tears, and wild pleasure. There were the nights when you’d talk about literally anything—those nights when George would talk about his childhood; the days he had before the sun had been robbed from him and had him ripped from his family’s history.

“I would play in the garden with my cousins,” he’d told you one particular night. “I could not stay with those of the working class. It was the effect of social hierarchy. I never believed in the system. It only brings about discrimination.”

Then there would also be the nights when he’d talk to you about his transformation. He’d told you one time of the fear he’d felt when he sensed his heart failing, his body fading away. Another time, he’d told you that it was rather empowering; to wake up under the moonlight, rejuvenated and filled with insuppressible energy, feeling like he could eat the entire world if he tried.

But then would come/ the nights that passed without conversation, may it be lost to emotion or passion of any sort—confessions whispered in the dark, clutching the other tightly and holding them close. Those were the most intimate nights, and you treasured them most.

George leads you to the observatory, which is an extension of the library just beside it.

Everything’s been kept neat, which might be alluding to something that escapes you, but there’s about nothing to look out for—no suspicious bookshelves or dressers; anything, really. You know there’s nothing to find here; you’d checked every nook and cranny of the place after moving in.

“George?”

He makes his way to the giant table in the middle of the room, clearing it of his sketches and notes. Bunching them up and placing them atop the cushioned seat of the chair, you watch as he toys with the dial of an archaic phone. For a moment, all you hear is its reel.

Then come a click and a mechanical whirr when George lifts the receiver. Something in the table unlocks, then the tabletop shifts away, revealing a few objects you assume you’ve never seen before.

George is at your side in an instant. “Here, darling,” he whispers at your ear, an arm around your waist as he brings you to the center table.

When you arrive there at last, you glance at the items in the gap—a pair of round, cracked glasses, a broken ring, a half-torn notepad, and a framed photograph. Something about these items sings ‘don’t touch,’ but you can’t help but give in to the desire to take one of them and examine it closely. Nevertheless, you ask George with an inquisitive set to your features, and he nods.

“Just the photograph. I’m afraid the rest is far too... fragile to be held at this point,” he answers.

So, you take the well-preserved photo and look at its subjects. There are four people there—George you can recognize, but the rest don’t ring a bell. You don’t recall him saying a single thing about men like the ones you’re seeing here. These men seem comfortable around George, with the way there’s not an inch of space between them, arms around each other like friends who’ve known each other for years on end. 

“Who are they?” you ask.

George points to the man at the farthest left. “This man here is John. Lennon. He owned the glasses you saw there. He was a lad who put on this tough exterior—wasn’t afraid to speak his bloody mind, and he’d put what he wanted to say in the way he wanted it. Although, he was always different when he was alone... He was truly soft. Someone who could attest to tha’ is the man beside him.”

You watch George’s finger drift from the steely-eyed character near the side of the frame to the doe-eyed chap to the right. 

“Here, ye have Paul McCartney. Pretty charming fella’, ‘e was. Very courteous as well. John called him ‘Macca.’ Ye wouldn’t find Paul without John nor the other way around... They were quite the inseparable duo. I believed there was always something more to them, even if they wouldn’t admit to it. They were men born at the wrong time. He owned the notepad.”

“Who’s the one between you and Paul, then?”

George brushes the pad of his right thumb across the image of the man you’re asking about. He’s the shortest of the four, and you check out the streak of white in his hair with awe. 

“That’s Ringo. He preferred to be addressed by the name ‘Ringo Starr,’ but those closely related to him knew he was a Richard Starkey. The lad had a fondness for rings of any kind, and sometimes he’d wear one on each finger of both his hands... we were a band, the four of us. I was the lead guitarist while John was rhythm and Paul, bass. Ringo was the drummer, that sweet lad. We were called the Beatles.”

“What happened?”

“We wrote good songs together. We were the talk of the town at one point... It was fun while it lasted. Couldn’t‘ve asked for a better experience, much more with people like them.” 

George moves away from you and walks to the spot opposite where you’re standing. 

“We were determined to reach the ‘toppermost of the poppermost,’ just as John loved to put it. But the war claimed them before our dreams would be realized.”

“Second World War, I’m guessing?”

He nods. “They all came from different families. John met Paul earlier on, their homes just a few houses away from one another. John’s da wasn’t the best sort, and his mam died before he could know ‘er. He fled to his Aunt Mimi’s, and while she was a damn great woman, she was never the role model he’d been lookin’ for. Paul had a wonderful mam... but she got sick and never recovered. His dad was devastated, and he put a hole through ‘is own ‘ead the moment Paul turned 13. He and his younger brother, Mike, were accepted in their auntie’s house, but Paul was never favored. He’d often run over to John’s house to stay there when he wasn’t missed. Alfred never really cared. They were there for each other in the darkest of times, which explains their incredible bond.”

You frown, still staring at the photograph in your hands. You could now see and appreciate their strength, knowing that people who have suffered as much as both John and Paul fight intense battles on a daily basis. You feel your heart breaking for them, your mind coming up with scenarios where they would sneak into each other’s bedrooms in the night or find a place to meet just to share a moment of comfort in each other’s presence—something that makes them feel safe even when they think the world’s going to collapse upon them at any given moment. 

George continues his narrative. “Ritchie, or Ringo, as I’ve introduced him to you as, moved to stay in one of the nearby boarding houses after poor Elsie died. He was old enough to make a living, and he was a natural at drumming. He’d been joining and leaving bands when John and Paul saw him over at the pub where you and I first met. Ringo was fascinated by the two who were infinitely better than any other aspiring musician he’d came across, but he was more interested in them personally. He was the older brother they loved to treat as the youngest sibling in the family.” 

“And how did you meet?” 

He rests his weight on his elbows. “I was the local urban legend ‘round these parts. It was taboo to step foot in this house or travel near this hill and the fields around it, but why is a question never answered. Ever since the death of my parents, the townsfolk collectively agreed to stay away. They must’ve been spooked by the series of unfortunate events that took place—my disappearance, my mother’s madness, and whatever came next... It is much to bear, and too complex for the mind to comprehend.”

“So I’m assuming they went here despite knowing they shouldn’t?” Fucking Hollywood. Fucking Hollywood and its stereotypes.

George chuckles, looking at the vague lines he’s tracing on the wood of the table. “Quite the daring bunch, weren’t they?” His finger stops moving for a moment. His smile grows, teeth glinting. “I was in these navy pyjamas that were a size larger than me, my hair tied back. ‘Oh, sir! We’re very sorry for trespassing. They say nobody lived here; we do promise ye we didn’t intend to disturb ya,’ Paul told me then. I looked at the three, all of them sporting these teddy boy looks which quite suited them... they looked pretty distinguished-like.”

“Come on. Even with what you were wearing, you’d still look like a Marlon Brando,” you tease, and George’s head flings upward, looking utterly flustered. You know that he’d be beet-red right now if blood streamed through his veins.

“Stop,” he says simply, and though there’s no venom in his tone, you feel like stopping the teasing altogether. You throw him a wink instead, then drop your gaze onto the frame again, picturing the scene of George’s tale as it plays out.

This is when he decides to continue. “I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t much contact with humans since the 1800s—I was eager to establish a few connections with other people, but I wasn’t courageous enough to approach someone I’d passed by. But then I saw the guitars strapped to John’s and Paul’s backs and the bongos Ringo carried. ‘So yer a band?’ I asked them. ‘Twas obvious they weren’t expectin’ tha’ question—they were left lost for words! Took ‘em a while before John answered, tellin’ me, ‘Yeh, what about it, then?’ Paul looked just about ready to throttle him, but I requested that they head inside and play for me before he could do anything of the sort.”

“They were good, then?”

“Good, yeh, but clearly missin’ something—a lead guitarist. They were sure of it; informed me they knew when I told them about it. I though’ they’d get all pissy over it, but they asked me if I knew how to play. Told ‘em I didn’t, but Paul wouldn’t just let tha’ slide. He told me he’d teach me if I learned quickly, but John wanted a bit more. He told me to sing. Now, I’d hung around in plenty of pubs, but no song ever stuck with me—maybe I didn’t ever get to hear someone who really got to me. Said just tha’, and John sang a few lines of this song I might’ve heard at least once. I followed and added a few twists to it ‘ere and there. And tha’ got them going.”

“You’ve got a beautiful voice, George. Of course it would get them going.”

“Yers is wonderful too, luv. Ye love to deny it, but if only ye’d hear what everyone else hears. Whether yer speaking, singing or screaming me name.” He smirks at the redness of your cheeks. “Truly.”

“Now you stop. Seriously, you sneaky—I can’t believe you’d just say that! I thought it was a serious moment!” you exclaim, crossing your arms.

“Oh, but I was serious there. ‘S not like yer any better, with the way you just tease me when we—”

“Back to the story!” you interject. “What happened then?”

George huffs and rolls his eyes good-naturedly before resuming. “They spent the night with me here, and Ringo, who was initially quiet as a gnome, started to chatter. He turned out to be the noisiest of them all. I never knew why they’d treat a stranger with such kindness... All I’ve known since my transformation was betrayal and cruelty. But they were different, as they proved to be. Morning came soon enough, and they asked me who I was. I thought that was it; that they’d run away when they found it. I thought of lying, but that would hardly be just after the compassion they’ve shown me.”

“What did you tell them, then?”

“The truth. All of it. Told them I was George Harrison, the son of the late Lord and Lady Harrison, who were executed and killed, respectively. I told them I was the boy they claimed caught in a ravine and stolen away by the stream because they could not accept having a ‘filthy bloodsucker’ as a son,” he spits bitterly. He breathes in deeply, turning his back to you, and you resist the urge to approach him. George is never one for physical contact when speaking of his parents, as they light a ferocity in his bones that was difficult to control. He’d told you specifically that it was better for you to stay safe than challenge what might prove to be stronger than the both of you.

“George,” you call: a reminder that he is someone who’s more than what popular lore claims him and his kind to be. Saying his name has always proven to help him regain composure, and you hope it would be of great help once more.

“Right,” he says shakily. “Right.”

It takes a few more breaths before he feels steady enough to look at you again, but everything works in his favor in the end. 

“Well, they just told me that all of our lives are right crap and that they’d be seeing me again the next night,” he says, able to crack a genuine smile. That’s your George.

“I joined them all throughout. Established a favorable name for ourselves. John and Paul taught me literacy, having finished grammar school. It was a shock to them, but it was a fact that I had not been educated there yet. I once sported the teddy boy look, actually—they told me I’d be havin’ just about anyone swoonin’ over me. They were right, but I never acted on my desires. It was never something appealing to me, considering I’d outlive all I would love that way.”

“But how am I any different?” you ask. Somewhere at the back of your mind, you wonder if you would completely give up your mortality just to be with George forever. It’s been a topic that was left hanging between the two of you, both sides too uncomfortable to talk about it. There were times you’d be totally into the idea of transformation, but then the anxieties would come. That was understandable—there were far too many questions left unanswered. Would you survive the process? Would you be one of the few who would transform? How would life be after?

“’M not saying you would give up your life just for me. I do not want you to think I am assuming you would do such a thing. I’m not using you to soothe the pain of loneliness that lingers when there is nobody around—that’s cruel, and I’d rather burn than allow myself to stoop so low.”

“Then why, George?” you implore.

“Because you intrigue me, (Y/N). Because ye came to me not cos of me appearance, or reputation. Cos ye thought of the lyrics before the tune. Cos ye approached me after ye’ve seen me at me rawest and showed a love only John, Paul, and Ringo have shown me. And more than tha’. I love ye, all right? Don’t ever doubt tha’.”

You wipe at your tears with a sleeve of your shirt as you return the photograph to the place you got it from, and George goes to you, wrapping you in his arms. Though he’s not a beacon of warmth temperature-wise, you feel his love reaching out to you. His heart may be still, but it feels no less alive than someone who has one that beats. He places a kiss at the top of your head.

“Tell me what happens next, please?” you plead, referring to George’s tale.

He presses a kiss against your hair one more time before swaying the two of you gently, listening to your plea. “We played together until they were forced to enlist. The war had started by then. I couldn’t just let them go. I begged them to stay with me here, let me transform them... even if I knew it was the selfish thing to do. But they weren’t like me. They told me they needed to do that—they weren’t the patriotic sort, but they wanted to serve the people they knew never cared about them. Not doing so sounded like petty revenge to them. I understood, but I never left them behind. I enlisted with them under false information, and we went to the battlefield together. The photo ye held was taken shortly before the first encounter we had with the enemy.”

He places another kiss against your hair, and your hands stroke his, which meet at the center of your waist. 

“It was painful, (Y/N). It was excruciating to see their spirits crushed; their faith and joy taken away from them in the cruelest manner. They all survived the first encounter, but they were different men by then. They’ve seen comrades die beside them, innocent people have their lives stolen so abruptly because of other people’s thirst for revenge and power.”

“You don’t need to con—” you start, but George barrels on, his throat getting tighter as the words spill out of his mouth.

“Paul was abducted by the enemy. John would have charged on to find him if we were not commanded to recall. He begged me to search for him because he knew I wouldn’t be killed by bullet nor bomb, so I went while the night was young. Paul was dead by the time I found him, but I took his body from the enemy camp and returned it to ours. John was heartbroken. He wouldn’t leave Paul no matter what we said or did. I returned to the enemy camp and ambushed them single-handedly. My hands wielded a weapon and used it to kill at least 40 men. I never murdered anyone in me life, but then—”

His tears start to roll down your hair, and your hand flies to his face to brush the rest away.

“John and Ringo died in the same encounter. I knelt by them as the commotion died down and closed their eyes as I wailed. They were outstanding men who meant no harm to anyone, and they were forced to fight in a war not their own. They could have avoided their deaths, but they chose to fight for people who hardly knew them when I would have stolen their lives just for them to be with me. I’m a monster. A fuckin’ monster—”

You twist in his grip and press your lips against his with force. His lips taste like the salt from his tears. His hands fly to your head and fist in your hair, but you don’t mind. His lips tear away from a moment as he sputters and sobs, but they soon return to yours for more kisses.

“You’re not a monster for wanting to save the people you love, George. All your life, you’ve known nothing but indifference and hate, but you chose to bare your soul to people who’ve been told to fear you. They’ve shown you love, and you’ve come to know it. Anyone would understand why you wanted to keep them. You are not. A. Monster,” you announce with trembling lips. “You’ve saved me, George. You’ve been kind to the people who’ve chosen to ostracize you. Monsters don’t do that! You’ve saved me from my sadness, from my loneliness... Don’t call yourself a monster before thinking of what you’ve done for me. I love you, Georgie, dear. You know I do.”

You and George continue to sway under the steady, tender watch of the stars, bright friends that light up your nights in times of distress and solitude. As the tears fall from  both your faces, you clutch against one another and hold each other tight, afraid that by letting go, both of you would fall away. 

Maybe, one day, your fears would be conquered. Maybe, one day, you’ll challenge the odds and dare to risk your being for George, but you know that by choosing to stay with him—mortal or no—you offer everything that you have to him. You know that by choosing to love him as he deserves to be loved, you are doing everything to make him happy, and are saving him just as he saved you.

So you stay in the now. The now, where the two of you are two halves of a whole, living in perfect harmony, swaying to the music as a couple. Now, where the two of you are safe in the other’s loving arms, knowing that a heart that does not beat is still a heart in itself and matters just as much as one that does.

It’s not exactly perfect, but you are genuinely happy.

And honestly? That’s all that matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> You are amazing, and thank you so much for reading! I'm an absolute slut for comments, so hit me up, buttercup!
> 
> Wanna chat? You can send me an ask or message me at my Tumblr, which is hungarianrhapsodyof1986 .


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